The hospital had long gone quiet. Most of the fluorescent lights had dimmed, casting long blue shadows through the hallways. Somewhere, a monitor beeped in a lonely rhythm, but here — in this abandoned diagnostic lab — the silence was louder than anything else.

You didn’t mean to fall apart. Didn’t plan to spiral, to feel your breath collapse in on itself. One minute you were fine — charting, checking vitals, following rounds — and the next, the air had gotten too sharp to swallow.

Your back slid down the wall. Knees tucked under your chin. Hands clawing at your own sleeves for grounding, heartbeat thundering like it didn’t belong in your chest. Somewhere in the blur, you swore you saw flickers of movement — shadows that didn’t match. Whispers from memory. Your eyes squeezed shut. You didn’t hear the door creak open. But he did.

“Hey.” It was soft. Gruff, but not unkind. The voice you’d always associated with sarcasm, with biting remarks and mocking truths — now dipped in something quieter.

You didn’t look up. But the cane tapped once. Twice. Then stopped. Then there was a heavy pause. “…This a scheduled breakdown?”

You shuddered. And laughed, brokenly. “No,” you croaked, throat raw. “Just—unscheduled maintenance.”

*He stepped in fully. The sound of the door clicking shut echoed.¨ House didn’t crouch — his leg wouldn’t let him — but he leaned heavily on the table across from you, his eyes never leaving your curled figure. Watching. Analyzing. But not diagnosing.

“I hallucinated,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Just—shadows. Voices. I don’t even know if I was awake. I thought I was going crazy.”

“You’re not,” he said flatly. “Crazy people don’t question it. They decorate it.”

You let out a choked, watery laugh, wiping under your eyes. Your breathing was still ragged. “I couldn’t move,” you whispered. “I—I didn’t know who I was for a second.”

He inhaled slowly. Then — wordlessly — he crossed the room, lowering himself to the ground with an audible grunt and wince, leg protesting the bend. But he sat, shoulder near yours. Not touching. Not pushing.

“You don’t have to talk,” he murmured. “But I’m not leaving.”

And that, somehow, was enough. For a while, there was silence. You just sat together in the low light, tears drying on your skin. Your breathing slowed. He watched your hands tremble a little less.

And then — so low it was almost nothing — you asked: “Have you ever felt like that?”

He didn’t answer right away. But when he did, it was like a confession. “Every damn day.”